


Bolt from the Blue

by enigmaticagentscully



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticagentscully/pseuds/enigmaticagentscully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra/Varric of course. Love, friendship, a grumpy dwarven grandma Inquisitor, and crossbows. Lots of stuff about crossbows. This is not a metaphor.</p><p>This started out as a random ficlet in my 'prompts and drabbles' thing, but now apparently it wanted to be longer so now it gets it's own place to go!</p><p>For all the wonderful Cassarric fic writers out there. We're so lucky to have so many talented people writing for this ship. Shine on, you crazy diamonds <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun was already setting as they made camp for the night, setting up in an old elven ruin that was nestled into a cliff face and surrounded by enough trees to at least partially conceal them. It was a good spot, and the Inquisitor was visibly pleased at having found it. She and Dorian were already discussing whether they should use their last raven to send a message back to the main camp at the edge of the forest and have some people come here to make a permanent base.

Cassandra would have joined in the conversation, but it had been a long day and she was weary of talk. Any party that included both Dorian and Varric could be rather trying at times in that regard. So instead she built up the fire; a task that was familiar enough to be relaxing but still took her concentration to get right. There was something primally satisfying in creating a fire, and once she was finished she sat back beside it close enough to feel the warmth, already more relaxed. Night had just about fallen and the flickering light cast a soft glow over the stone pillars of the temple and the small pile of supplies they had dumped in a heap on the floor. She could feel the heat gradually melting away the stiffness on her muscles that came from a day of walking on uneven ground and fighting far more giants than it seemed an area like this could possibly sustain.

It was a cause for concern, what the red templars might possibly want with giants. But Cassandra put it out of her mind for the time being, determined not to worry herself into another sleepless night.

Dorian and the Inquisitor were still deep in animated conversation as they started to unroll beds and look through supplies, though by the looks of it they had moved on from business and were now laughing together at some joke Dorian had told. Cassandra allowed herself a small smile as she watched them. An old dwarven matriarch from the Carta and the pampered son of a Tevinter Magister. Who would have thought they’d become such firm friends? The Maker had certainly thrown together an odd group of people in recent times.

Of course, such unexpected alliances did not  _always_  work out.

Varric had sat cross legged on the other side of the fire, checking over Bianca as he always did after a day in the field. Cassandra watched with a vague disapproval. Having recently met the real Bianca she understood a little better the significance Varric’s crossbow had to him, and it was certainly an impressive piece, but she wasn’t sure just how much he conflated it with the woman who had betrayed him.

Well, perhaps  _betrayed_  was too strong a word. Truly, Bianca Davri’s only crime was foolishness, and concealment of the truth afterwards. Perhaps it was no wonder Varric forgave her so easily, thought Cassandra sourly.

Actually, seeing the woman behind Varric’s crossbow had rather unsettled her. Cassandra had always assumed that the ever unexplained ‘Bianca’ was just another one of Varric’s tales; a way of making himself seem more mysterious and interesting.

_There was a girl, and I made a promise. Bianca is the only story I can never tell._

Strange, to think that she now knew something about Varric that he had never even shared with some of his closest friends. Although...the thought now occurred to Cassandra that his friends in Kirkwall could very well know about Bianca, could even have met her, and Varric had simply left it out of his story when she had interrogated him because he didn’t want  _her_ to know.

Cassandra  _had_ been curious at the time, of course she had. But it hadn’t been relevant to her goal, and she wouldn’t give the dwarf the satisfaction of asking. Now she knew anyway, at least enough to get the gist of what Bianca was to him.

Cassandra wondered what it was like, to love someone for that long even knowing that they would never be yours. To stay true to them even as years went by without meeting, to forgive them no matter what pain they caused you. It wasn’t something she would have thought Varric capable of.

“Almost obscene, isn’t it?” said Dorian’s voice near her ear. Cassandra jumped slightly, feeling an irrational flush of guilt at having been caught lost in speculation on someone else’s personal life.

“What are you talking about?” she said, a little more sharply than she had intended.

“The way Varric fondles that crossbow,” smirked Dorian, sitting down next to her. “ _Oh_  so many jokes I could make, but sadly I fear he’d have a reply prepared for every single one. Shame.”

“I’m sure he’s heard it all before from Hawke,” said Cassandra. “Besides, someone with no sense of shame whatsoever is almost impossible to make fun of, I find.”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’m sure I can find something.”

“I can hear you, you know,” said Varric, without looking up. “If you’re going to plot against me Sparkler, you could at least do it out of earshot.”

“Oh dear, you’re not going to mention the famous terrible human senses, are you?” said Dorian. “First Solas, then Bull, now you too. I swear I can’t even have a pleasant conversation with our Inquisitor without hearing about how she can see fifty foot further than I can in the dark, and probably smell what I had for breakfast too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Believe it or not, I can hear in the dark too!” came the voice of the Inquisitor from over by the supplies. “Come and make yourself useful and help me with this tent, young man. Leave the grown-ups be.”

“Yes maam,” drawled Dorian, and he got up again and wandered off towards her.

Cassandra, grateful at being spared another exchange of cheerful bickering from Dorian and Varric but not quite sure how she felt about being referred to as one of the ‘grown-ups’, went back to idly watching the dwarf, who now appeared to be disassembling his crossbow.

It was...oddly unpleasant to witness, as he removed the limbs and then started stripping down the metal parts from the barrel, occasionally unscrewing something with miniscule tools produced from a small roll in his coat pocket. His deft fingers took her apart in a few minutes, until she was lying in pieces, neat rows of wood and metal laid out on a cloth before him. Cassandra watched with a kind of horrified fascination. It had gone so quickly from being a familiar object to just...parts. It was like seeing someone undergoing surgery.

“Seeker, can I ask why you keep staring at Bianca?” said Varric, suddenly. He looked up at her with a grin, polishing a bit of metal idly with a rag as he spoke. “Why, you’ll start to make me jealous if you keep it up.”

Cassandra fumbled for the right words. “I didn’t realise you could take her—”  _Damn!_  “—it apart like that.”

Varric shrugged. “Sure. There’s a lot of small internal parts that need to keep moving, so I take her apart every now and then to make sure everything’s clean and working right. Wood hasn’t split, metal hasn’t rusted, and springs are still sprung. Just like you keeping your sword sharp, I suppose.”

“But rather more complicated, I suspect,” said Cassandra.

“Careful Seeker, that was very nearly a compliment,” said Varric. “You’re not wrong though.” He picked up a very small metal shape from the cloth and slotted it neatly into something else. There was an almost imperceptible sound as something connected. “If someone who didn’t know what they were doing tried this, they wouldn’t get very far. Of course, they’d have to have pried her from my corpse first, so I guess I wouldn’t be in a position to judge either way.”

Cassandra frowned slightly at that. She had never been particularly happy with the way he and some of the others joked about such things, as if they were so certain it would never really happen. The worst part was that it was probably true – there was no way Varric would willingly relinquish his crossbow to anyone while he still drew breath. He barely let anyone else touch it. He called it ‘sweetheart’ sometimes. The memory wandered into her mind for no particular reason.

Varric started humming softly under his breath as he started to put his crossbow back together. If was fascinating to watch, in a way, the way the parts fitted together, metal and wood and springs and some parts that must have been Elven ironbark. He worked quickly, hardly seeming to pay much attention as he took each new part and fitted it to the whole. Cassandra was willing to bet that he could do it blindfolded, and probably had. If Bianca Davri truly was the maker of the bow, she must have spent some considerable time making sure Varric was familiar enough with her creation that he knew every part so intimately.

She wondered if Varric called the real Bianca _sweetheart_  too. If he looked at her with the same tenderness. If he ran his hands over her in the same way that he...

There was a loud  _click_ , and the sound of a crossbow ratcheting back into place.

Varric sat back, apparently finished. “There, see?” He patted the crossbow affectionately. “She can be broken down into pieces and as long as I’m here to put her back together, she’s good as new.”

_Lucky her_ , thought Cassandra.


	2. Chapter 2

Venatori were one thing. A high dragon was another. Both at the same time was...a challenge.

Whether or not the dragon had actually been a strategy on the Venatori’s part or just sheer bad luck for everyone concerned, Cassandra wasn’t sure. But the battle was rapidly turning into chaos. Dorian and the Inquisitor were swarmed by the red robed mages, the zip and sizzle of magic flying through the air of the cliff-side clearing, Etta’s shouts just audible above the clash of steel and the roaring of the enraged dragon. Not caring who was on what side, the beast stormed through friend and foe alike, lashing out with its claws and sending great billows of icy breath at anyone who came close. Fighting such a single large creature in close quarters required an entirely different kind of tactics then fighting a group of smaller enemies, and they were all suffering in the confusion.

With the others engaged with the Venatori, Cassandra had been left by default to deal with the dragon. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered at the Inquisitor’s apparent confidence that she could handle it, but right now she didn’t have time to consider such things.

She darted underneath the dragon’s vast bulk, hacking at its thick hide with her sword wherever she got a chance, and by some stroke of the Maker’s favour, as it turned to snap at a nearby Venatori bodyguard, its foreleg came down just ahead of her. A sweep of her sword cut through its hamstring, spraying hot blood across the ground and over her own face.  As she reached up instinctively to wipe the stuff out of her eyes, the dragon let out a bellowing roar of pain and took off, vast wings beating down the air and knocking Cassandra to the ground. She was able to roll with the fall, and heard cries and curses from around her that told her she wasn’t the only one caught off guard by the dragon’s sudden flight.

Scrambling to her feet, she saw Varric for the first time since this mess had begun, dashing for his crossbow which must have been knocked out of his hands and lay on the ground some twenty yards away. Instincts kicking in, Cassandra seized her shield from where it had fallen and ran to cover him while he was defenceless. She was only a few feet away when the dragon made another pass, wings beating the air furiously, raw magic thrown at it from all directions. Even the remaining Venatori had recognised the greater threat and were focusing on taking the beast down first, but to no avail. The beating of its wings were creating a kind of vortex, sucking in the air and sending them all spinning across the ground, crying out frantically. What had become of the Inquisitor or Dorian Cassandra couldn’t see, but she heard Varric swear as his crossbow was dragged further from his grasp and skidded towards the edge of the cliff, and saw him scramble after it in a kind of low crouching run.

All this went past in a flash as she was dragged helplessly across the ground by the merciless gale, her own sword clattering away in the vortex, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the rocky earth.

She barely had a moment to pray that Varric and the others would not be swept over the edge of the cliff, when she went over herself.

Cassandra hadn’t realised it had been so close. There was a confusion of images and sound, a roaring in her ears, rocks crumbling around her, the air sucked out of her lungs in shock, fingers gripping her arm, nearly wrenching it out of its socket, a sensation of terrible gaping  _space..._

And then she was lying on the hard stony earth, gloriously solid beneath her, every muscle in her body burning and her breath coming in quick frantic gasps. The edge of the cliff was a few feet away and she had to fight the urge to crawl further away from it. Adrenaline pounded through her blood and she was...alive. She was alive. The clearing was quiet, the battle must be over, and a good thing too, as right now Cassandra was so stunned as to be useless. Images from the last few minutes flashed through her mind. What had just happened couldn’t possibly have...surely she must have been mistaken. The frantic panic of the moment had...

Varric swore quietly beside her, sitting upright carefully and rubbing his arm.

“You need to get some lighter armour Seeker,” he muttered. “I swear you nearly broke my arm.”

Cassandra stared at him. “You saved my life,” she gasped, voice still slightly hoarse and breathless.

“Yeah?” Varric frowned slightly, clearly not quite understanding. They had all probably saved each other countless times in the heat of battle, after all. “I’d noticed, actually. You make it pretty hard work, sometimes.”

“Bianca...” said Cassandra.

Varric grimaced. “She went over,” he said. “Probably at the bottom of the cliff by now.”

“I know. I...I saw. But you...you still...”

Light finally dawned in Varric’s eyes. “Wait...you’re  _surprised_  that I...Andraste’s ass Seeker, you didn’t really think I’d let you die to save my  _crossbow?_ ”

Cassandra’s breath had returned, but now she could think of absolutely nothing to say. Varric just stared at her as though he had never seen her before.

“HEY! You two still alive over there?” The Inquisitor’s voice cut through the air, making them both jump. She was jogging over to them with Dorian in tow, both looking rather the worse for wear. Cassandra and Varric both scrambled to their feet as the pair approached.

Etta looked wide-eyed at Cassandra. “Maker’s balls, you’re covered in blood!”

“It is not mine,” said Cassandra, doing her best to wipe her face clean.

Etta relaxed. “Sneaky bastards, trying to get the dragon to do their work for ‘em,” she said more cheerfully, gesturing to the crumpled heaps of red robes that now littered the ground around the vast bulk of the dragon.

“It didn’t seem to be the world’s best thought out plan,” said Dorian, who was sporting a nasty bruise on his temple and looked distinctly annoyed.  “I can’t imagine how they thought they’d survive it.”

“Probably didn’t,” said Etta. “Cultists.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re always so eager to die for the cause. Still, suits me fine. At least it means we have the same goal in mind.” She hefted her axe onto her back and strapped it securely behind her with swift practised motions. “What say we call it a success and head back to camp early, eh? One dragon per day is about my limit.”

She looked from Cassandra to Varric and back again, frowning slightly. “Is something wrong?” she said. “Neither of you are injured, right?”

Varric sighed. “We’re fine,” he said. “But...we might have to make a small detour on the way back to camp, if you don’t mind.”

The trip to the bottom of the cliff was a long one. They had to go around for a couple of miles to find a shallow enough slope to climb down, and even then it was a twenty minute scramble down slippery scree, stumbling over bushes and hanging onto rocks for support. Even once down progress was frustratingly slow, the clear cut paths and grassy clearings of the forest above given way to tangles of close growing trees and sudden drops that forced them to constantly make detours just to find a way through. They were all exhausted, made worse by the knowledge that they would have to find their way back later, but no-one complained.

Etta and Dorian made some desultory conversation now and again, between hacking through vegetation. Varric seemed lost in thought, and it took Cassandra a long time to steel herself to speak to him. They were a little way behind the other two by that point, so Cassandra reassured herself that at least she wouldn’t have an audience for what was sure to be an uncomfortable exchange.

She cleared her throat, unsure of how to begin. “Varric, I wanted to ah...to thank you for...”

“Save it Seeker,” said Varric curtly, shoving a branch aside with unnecessary force. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“Of course. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”

“I didn’t do it to earn your gratitude,” said Varric.

Cassandra frowned. He was clearly not happy with her, even more so than usual. “Are you angry that I’m grateful for my life?” she asked.

Varric snorted. “No. Being happy to be alive is fine. But you’re not just grateful. You’re  _surprised_.”

“Oh.” Was he really annoyed about that? “I didn’t intend to offend you. I just didn’t expect that you would let your crossbow go so easily. I’m aware that you don’t believe I understand such things, but I know Bianca isn’t just another tool. She...it is important to you.”

“And you’re not important at all to anyone, is what you’re saying?”

Well that came out of nowhere. Cassandra hesitated. “No of course not, I simply thought...”

“That I was such an asshole I’d let another person die to save a possession of my own.”

“No!” Cassandra couldn’t work out where her thanking him had gone so wrong, but the conversation was rapidly devolving into another argument. “I...not another person, just...well... _me_.”

“Yeah well, maybe your mistake there was thinking you know me at all, because clearly you don’t.”

 She had never heard Varric so angry, without even an edge of humour to his tone. He was often annoyed at her – they had rubbed each other the wrong way from the start – but now he sounded...hurt. She realised it with an unpleasant jolt. Maker’s breath, she had actually hurt his feelings.

 “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I clearly don’t. I am sorry. Truly.”

Varric glanced at her sharply, and she realised that now  _he_  was the one caught off guard. Perhaps she had never openly apologised to him before. Perhaps he hadn’t thought her capable of it. Cassandra felt an absurd flicker of triumph that Varric was as guilty of misjudging her as she was of him, but it wasn’t really a pleasant victory when she thought about it. It probably explained a lot about them.

After that they walked in silence. It was often easier that way.

As they approached the place where Bianca had fallen the cliff grew ever steeper and higher, a towering wall of rock rising on their left side. But the forest itself thinned a little at least, trees giving way to wide patches of scrub and rubble, dotted with huge boulders that must have come loose from the crumbling cliff side. Dorian muttered a few words under his breath and a bright blue light flared briefly high on the cliff top above them, from a spell he had set as they left their earlier battleground. He nodded briefly and by unspoken agreement the party started to spread out a little, eyes raking over the debris.

Cassandra couldn’t help but throw glances at Varric every now and again as they searched. She couldn’t tell if he was still angry, or had forgotten their argument in the light of the more important issue. Still, though saving her life may have meant little to him, Cassandra found she couldn’t so easily detach herself from the consequences of his action. Seeing the tiny blue light flare at the top of the cliff that reared so impossibly high above them had made her feel slightly queasy. A strange thing; she had faced death many times after all, and fates far worse than this would have been. Perhaps she was simply tired.

“I found it!” cried Etta suddenly, the sound breaking into Cassandra’s thoughts from a little way off. “Over here!”

“And over here,” said Dorian, and Cassandra could almost hear the wince in his voice. “And a bit over there too, I’m afraid.”

Cassandra risked another sidelong glance at Varric, who looked grim for a moment.

“Alright,” he said. “Just...get everything you can find, okay?”

They spread out further and searched through the rubble and clusters of thorny bushes, depositing anything they found onto the cloth that Varric laid out onto the ground. The wooden crosspieces of the bow had snapped off and splintered, the barrel appeared to have burst on impact, strewing delicate pieces across the landscape. Dorian found the metal sight bent out of recognition and lodged halfway up a tree, and was so pleased with the discovery that he threw himself into the search with renewed enthusiasm, perhaps trying to prove that his only-human eyesight was just as good as anyone else’s.

“Well,” said Etta finally, staring down at the cloth. “I don’t know shit about crossbows, Varric, but I think we’ve got all the pieces at least. What’s the verdict?”

“Bianca’s made of sturdy stuff,” said Varric. “Given a little help and a lot of time, I’ll be able to fix her.”

“And if you can’t?”

Varric shrugged, trying and failing to look indifferent. “Then I can’t. She had a good run.”

Cassandra looked at the split chunk of wood in her hand, and tried to picture Varric without his crossbow. It was like trying to picture him without a head.

“Varric...” she began, not quite knowing what she meant to say, and only able to think of one thing. “I...I’m sorry.”

Varric gave her a very odd look. “Seeker...” He sighed deeply. “You know, you have a really weird habit of trying to blame everything that goes wrong in the world either on  _me_ , or on yourself.” To her surprise, he laid a hand briefly on her arm. It was a gentle, almost friendly gesture. “It’s not your fault, or anyone else’s. Sometimes shit just happens. Forget about it, okay?”

He walked away to meet Dorian, who was scrambling down the bank waving another piece of bent metal triumphantly in his hand.

Cassandra stared at his retreating back. After the anger of earlier, this weary defeat was somehow much worse.

“He’s right, you know.” Cassandra turned to see the Inquisitor giving her a tired smile. “You’re too hard on yourself.” The old dwarf sat down heavily on a nearby boulder, shuffling herself into a more comfortable position. “Believe me, we’re all glad that it’s not you we’re having to scrape off the landscape instead. Varric as much as anyone.”

“Oh,” said Cassandra, shifting uneasily. “You know that I was almost...?”

“Heard you talking earlier,” said Etta. “You’re too hard on Varric too.”

“I have been made aware of that,” said Cassandra. “He reminds me of it almost daily.”

Etta gave her an odd look. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean...that he doesn’t hate you as much as you think he does. Or as much as _he_  thinks he does.”

“With all due respect Inquisitor, that doesn’t really make sense.”

Etta shrugged. “Probably not. These things rarely do. But it’s like his crossbow – why we’re all out here scrabbling through a ton of rock for something that right now is so much scrap parts.” She gave Cassandra another searching look. “It’s not what it  _is_ , it’s what it  _represents_.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to ask what in the Maker’s name Etta was talking about, but lost her chance at the return of Dorian and Varric, weaving their way towards them across the scree.

The journey back to camp that evening was a long one, the journey back to Skyhold even longer. Varric kept up his usual good humour, his supply of stories and jokes and chatter, but there was a gaping absence in every conversation, an unspoken loss that they all carefully avoided. One of Leliana’s scouts at the forest’s edge camp had provided Varric with a very decent crossbow as a temporary substitute, and when they were attacked by a gang of bandits on the road he proved himself more than proficient with it, under the circumstances. The pieces of Bianca were kept in a pack slung over his back, but Cassandra didn’t see him take them out or look at them on the journey, not even once.

Every night, she dreamt of falling.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few weeks at Skyhold were somewhat unsettled.

Varric had disappeared almost as soon as they returned, only showing up occasionally to grab food from the kitchens with shadows around his eyes and a distracted air. There were long hours shut up in the Undercroft with the sound of anvils clanging and Master Harritt’s swearing drifting up through the locked door. There were sketches and plans in piles of parchment littering his desk in the main hall, with notes written in some dwarfish code no-one could decipher.

And a visit, for just a few days, from a small figure with her face shrouded by a heavy cloak, who arrived very late one night and cuffed Varric sharply around the back of his head before embracing him.

All this Cassandra observed in passing as her own duties kept her busy as ever around the castle. Commander Cullen was indisposed, and she was obliged to take over much of his work with the new recruits, a task she particularly hated. Though she was more than the Commander’s equal when it came to swordsmanship, Cassandra was no leader and hadn’t really the temperament for training. Images of her time with Daniel in the Seekers kept intruding into her thoughts, and the dull pain of his loss made her impatient and irritable with the recruits. On top of that there were always long strategy meetings in the war room with the Inquisitor, visiting nobles to appease who would see no-one but the Divine’s right hand personally, and Josephine’s seemingly endless mountain of paperwork. So it was with as much surprise as relief when she heard, some three weeks later, that Varric had emerged from the Undercroft with a wide grin and his crossbow held triumphantly in his hands. There was a brief celebration in the tavern that evening that Cassandra did not attend, busy as she was and – she could admit it at least to herself – a little afraid of being unwelcome.

Whether or not it could really be said to be the _same_ crossbow when all was said and done, somehow Bianca never looked the same to Cassandra after that regardless. Of course there were a few obvious physical differences, but Varric had always been upgrading and fiddling with it in the normal run of things anyway, and besides this was more...a feeling. Ridiculous, but there all the same. She couldn’t help but feel the nagging flash of guilt every time she saw Varric take the crossbow apart after a long day, or when it jammed in the midst of a battle and he cursed as he cleared out the split bolt.

After all, one of them was fated to be smashed to pieces on a cliff side, and Varric had made the choice that it would not be her.

Not that it meant anything, of course. _Sometimes shit just happens._

But he had laid his hand so gently on her arm that she could still feel it when she closed her eyes at night, and he had picked up the pieces of Bianca so carefully and wrapped them in a cloth to carry them home, and he...he had looked at his crossbow shattered on the hard earth with such pain in his eyes and Cassandra wondered how he would have looked if it had been her instead.

_And you’re not important at all to anyone, is what you’re saying?_

Varric hadn’t really spoken to her since they got back to Skyhold, but Cassandra wasn’t sure if it was from anger, resentment, a desire to avoid further awkwardness or just plain exhaustion. She was uncomfortably aware that he had been right – she clearly didn’t know him at all.

Well, at least she had been able to make some sense of what the Inquisitor had said, once she had thought about it.

_It’s not about what it is, it’s about what it represents._

What his crossbow represented to Varric was Bianca. Bianca the woman, Bianca who he loved, Bianca the _story_. It was a part of him and a part of her and that was so obvious to anyone who knew him that they had spent hours finding the shattered thing and hours more putting it back together without question.

And what did Cassandra Pentaghast represent to Varric? The loss of his home, the loss of his friends, the face of persecution, the unfeeling authority that strode into the chaos that had exploded around him and held _him_ accountable for it. Everyone else had a nickname, but she was only ever ‘Seeker’ because that’s all she would ever be to him. So perhaps the Inquisitor was right. Varric didn’t hate _her_ so much as he hated what she was, and what she had done to him. Cassandra couldn’t see that it made much difference, really.

But he had saved her life, even at the cost of something he genuinely cared about. So perhaps he thought there was at least some part of her worth knowing.

**

It was a bright clear morning some days after Bianca’s rebirth when Cassandra found herself grudgingly engaging in some more training exercises with some of the newest members of the Inquisition. After Halamshiral their forces had been steadily swelled by a flood of young hopefuls from Orlais and elsewhere, joining up for a chance of glory with the armies of the faithful. Whatever their motivation – and it ranged from sheer boredom to genuine and slightly disturbing zealotry in some cases – the new arrivals were making the Inquisition into a military force to be reckoned with.

It was a good thing, probably. For Cassandra, trying to cover as much of Cullen’s responsibilities as she could so that the poor man could catch some sleep occasionally, it was turning into something of a nuisance.

This particular batch of recruits were some of the ones who had arrived with at least some knowledge of how to use a sword – in theory a good thing, but in practice often far more difficult to train, as they had to unlearn whatever foolish habits they had picked up before in order to fight as a cohesive force for the Inquisition. Right now Cassandra was giving some more advanced lessons to five of the most promising; Bradley, Smith, Moreau, Roche (the only woman of the bunch) and Wakefield. Cassandra had privately decided that Wakefield in particular was some kind of personal test of patience the Maker had sent her. A sturdily built and competent young man, he nonetheless had a carefree air she didn’t take to, and suffered acutely from a sense of humour. Only the other day she had overheard him on guard duty describing her in detail to another recruit in what he probably thought were... _complimentary_ terms. The look on his face when he had turned to see her standing behind him had almost been worth the indignity. Almost. She was aware that the incident had made its way quickly around the castle too, and had rather irritatingly seemed to make Wakefield into a kind of minor hero among the soldiery, based solely on the fact that he hadn’t been killed there and then.

Which was rather unfair, Cassandra thought. She had been tempted to kick him off the battlements, but only briefly.

At least today he appeared to be at least attempting to be serious. They all were in fact; four young men and one young woman standing as straight as they could in armour that gleamed with polish and expressions of eager concentration. They had been moved on from basic training because they were better than the rest, and they knew it. Roche was practically vibrating with excitement.

Cassandra surveyed them wearily. Sweet Andraste, had she ever been that _young?_

She launched into her familiar speech, barely concentrating on the words as she spoke them. “Good morning. You all know who I am, and I know who you are, so I won’t waste time with pleasantries. You are here because you show promise; what you do with that is up to you.” The grass was laced with early spring frost and crackled under her feet as she paced slowly along the line. “The sword you are holding now is yours, at least for the foreseeable future. Take care of it, because no-one else will. If it lets you down you have only yourself to blame.”

She took a deep breath, as much to steady herself as for effect. All those pairs of bright, eager eyes boring into her were disconcerting. She could face down a dragon without blinking, but she was sure she would never get used to this, though she had faced it for most of her life. The unquestioning hero worship of others. Urgh. Cassandra felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the Inquisitor, but pushed the feeling aside quickly, to focus on the task at hand.

“Your sword is not simply a tool,” she said, “It is a weapon. Know the difference, or you will never be more than a competent swordsman, at best. To wield a weapon, _any_ weapon properly, it must be a part of yourself, as much under your control as your feet and your eyes. Preferably under far more control than you have over your mouth, Wakefield.”

There was a round of muffled laughter from the other recruits as Wakefield blushed. Slightly heartened by this, Cassandra continued:

“Your sword must become an extension of your arm.” She paused. “You are nodding because you have all heard this before and believe you know what it means. You do not. It will be a long time until you truly understand, and longer still before you can put that knowledge into practice.”

She stopped pacing and surveyed them severely each in turn. Wakefield still looked embarrassed, Roche and Smith painfully keen, and the other two just scared. Perfect.

“Alright, the Commander has already seen to it that you are at least competent with a sword. Against a group of untrained men that may well be enough, but the enemies you may face as part of the Inquisition will not be turned aside so easily. You may be called up to fight a variety of different opponents. So the purpose of this is to learn how to fight an opponent who may very well have better armour, a better weapon, or even better training than you, and still come out alive. As such...” Cassandra drew her sword from its hilt with a faint metallic sound. “Any volunteers?”

The recruits, as one, all took a step back. Cassandra sighed. “I have no intention of _wounding_ anyone,” she said wearily. “The easiest way to see where you’re going wrong is to experience it firsthand. The purpose of this is to train you, not to humiliate you. We will get nowhere if your pride is too great to ever admit that there are fights you cannot win.” She stared slowly along the line of shuffling figures, all trying not to meet her eye. There was usually at least one...

“No-one then? How disappointing.” She could see Roche’s fingers trembling, her tongue nervously moistening her lips. A young woman from Orlais had more to prove than most. Perhaps given just a few moments more...

“Very well then,” said Cassandra, carefully not looking directly at the indecisive Roche. “If none of you have the courage to learn a little humility, then we’ll start by pairing you up and—”

“I’ll do it.”

Cassandra’s head whipped round at the unmistakable voice, to see Varric leaning casually against the wooden fence that surrounded the training ring. It was so unexpected to hear his voice at all, to see him here of all places, that for a moment she didn’t even register what it was he had said.

“I...you...” Surprise quickly gave way to instinctive distrust. “You are hardly a _swordsman_ , Varric,” she said.

Varric shrugged and ducked under the fence. “I know which end to hold,” he said, as he sauntered over. “And weren’t you just talking about how important it is to learn to fight a variety of different opponents? You don’t get much more different than me.”

He winked at her. “I promise I won’t show you up in front of the kids.”

Cassandra’s fingers curled tighter around the hilt of her sword. “Varric, this is hardly the time or the place for one of your—”

But Varric had already turned to the recruits, clapping his hands together in a decisive sort of way. “Anyone got a sword I can borrow? I seem to have left mine somewhere. Oh thanks.” He accepted the proffered blade from a grinning Wakefield, who Cassandra silently cursed to the deepest part of the Deep Roads.

“Come on Seeker,” Varric said, turning back to her with a sword that looked absurdly long compared to his height. “It’ll be a good lesson. And haven’t you always wanted to teach me some humility? Now’s your chance.”

Something snapped inside Cassandra, something that had to do with the infuriating smirk on Varric’s face, and the small figure in the cloak who he had looked at as if she were the only thing in the world, and the row of amused faces watching them and constant inescapable dreams of falling.

“Fine,” she said, her voice calm and measured. “Have it your way.” She raised her sword.

Varric grinned. “What is it they say in Orlais?” he said. “En garde?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a lot of this chapter while drugged up on cold medicine. I don't even bloody well know where it's going or even where it's coming from, new chapters of this fic just keep sort of showing up in my brain.
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated, as always! I've given this fic it's own posting now since it's looking to be at least five chapters long, if not more. Hopefully some of you are entertained enough to want to read more of it because, like it or not, more appears to be coming.


	4. Chapter 4

“I almost had you.”

“No...no you did not.”

“Humour me Seeker, I just got beaten into the dust in front of five impressionable young people. My reputation may never recover.”

“You did _quite literally_ ask for it Varric.”

He was leaning on the outside of the fence around the training ring again, though rather more heavily than before, the hint of a wince in his expression whenever he moved. Cassandra was on the inside, her arm resting lightly on the top of the fence, only half turned towards him. They were both watching the recruits, who were now taking it in turns to fight each other while the others watched in an attempt to identify their weakest areas.

_The shifting of feet and stretching of muscle, the familiar rhythm of battle. He was light on his feet, which she had known, and fast too, which she had not. He took advantage of her greater height, slipping under her field of vision, forcing her to strike low, constantly spinning to find him. But the sword was clumsy in his hand and for all his tricks it was only a matter of time, and he was laughing and why was he doing this? He must have known he couldn’t win, but this was Varric, he must have some angle to play, something to gain by losing..._

“You know, they’re actually not that bad,” said Varric.

“Hmm?” Cassandra pulled her restless thoughts back to the recruits. “Oh. Yes, they have some potential,” she admitted, a tad grudgingly.

More than Varric did anyway, she thought. Hand to hand fighting on an even field was _not_ his strong suit, which she could easily have told him beforehand just from having fought alongside him. Cassandra liked to meet her foes head on, to see what she was facing and rely on her own skill and the strength of her shield to protect her. Varric had a rogue’s instincts for slipping through battles unnoticed, finding chinks in armour, good ground to hold while he picked them off from afar. He always used a more roundabout way to achieve victory.

That thought slightly worried Cassandra, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.

Still, at least Varric didn’t appear to be angry with her anymore, so perhaps his complete avoidance of her since the incident with Bianca was purely her imagination. Or coincidence. Whatever strange game he was playing today – a bet perhaps? Had Iron Bull bet Varric to fight her? It seemed like the sort of thing he’d do – they were at least apparently on speaking terms.

She hadn’t realised how much of a weight on her shoulders it had been until it was lifted. She and Varric had never precisely been _friends_ but...well, irritation or not, she had become accustomed to having him around. It was a relief to know he wasn’t intending to bear a grudge forever, that any time they were obliged to spend together wouldn’t be stony silence broken only by unpleasant jibes. They had already been through enough of that. And he had saved her life, after all. She would hate to be in debt to someone who despised her for it.

_...he met her sword only a few times, sparks flying from the dull training blades. In the strength of their arms they were almost evenly matched, but he had no technique, no idea when to strike or block, switching between slashing and stabbing...a wide swing left him open and she brought her blade round in a great overhand sweep, intending to knock him down and end it quickly, but he dropped low and rolled out of the way, springing back up instantly..._

“You going to take pity on them at any point?” asked Varric.

Cassandra was jerked from her reverie again. “What? Oh yes, of course.” The recruits _were_ looking rather tired. They had been practising for a while she watched them, distracted by her own thoughts and Varric’s presence, and they were none of them used to fighting for an extended period of time. Cassandra gave herself a mental shake. Maker, what was _wrong_ with her recently? She seemed constantly preoccupied, worrying herself to distraction over every little thing.

And every night, falling in her dreams.

She made a conscious effort to pull herself together and strode over to the recruits, where Roche was thoroughly thrashing a rather red faced Moreau, who seemed unwilling to hit a woman. Or perhaps just unwilling to hit Roche. Cassandra smiled inwardly. Interesting, but not entirely relevant to training. The other three men had clearly given up as soon as they had spotted her approaching, and were leaning on their swords panting heavily, but they all tried to look alert as she approached and cleared her throat to get the attention of the sparring pair. They too lowered their weapons with sighs of relief, and once more all those eager pairs of eyes were trained on her.

Worse now, because she could feel Varric watching her from the fence too, no doubt readying some choice remarks for later on her leadership skills, or lack thereof. Cassandra almost cleared her throat again just to give herself a few extra seconds to think, but stopped herself just in time before she made herself look ridiculous.

“Good,” she said briskly. “None of you have the stamina you should, but that is hardly something you can gain overnight, it will take a great deal of practice before you can face a lengthy battle. The Commander has taught you well in terms of basic technique, but no-one is pefect. I’m sure as you fought each other you identified weaknesses in your opponent’s style that you were able to exploit?”

There was a chorus of uncertain murmurs as the recruits tried to agree with her while also clearly desperately hoping she would not ask them what these weaknesses were. Cassandra has no intention of causing friction between them however, and simply nodded in approval.

“Be aware of your own weaknesses,” she said. “And do not rely on the same strategies every time. Learn from the mistakes your opponent makes, and learn from their successes as well.” She allowed them a rare smile. “Talk to each other. No-one learns how to fight alone. It may be that the man or woman standing next to you now will teach you as much as I do.”

They looked rather surprised at this, and it occurred to Cassandra that she should perhaps have been clearer that she wasn’t just talking about practical technique any more. Well, surely they would work such things out. She genuinely believed that those who knew and cared about the people they fought alongside would fight with greater skill and determination, but there was no way she could say anything of the kind without it sounding like a speech from one of Varric’s books.

“Tomorrow we will go over some more specific techniques,” she said. “But we are finished for today.” The truth was, the fight with Varric had taken much longer than simply putting a young recruit in their place would have done, and she was feeling a little tired herself.

_...again and again she struck, and he avoided, dodged, barely deflected. He was dragging this out needlessly. Was he mocking her, testing her? A sudden surge of anger flared, and she brought her sword around low at his knees, forcing him to jump to avoid it, and punched out the fist of her left hand into his chest. If she had been holding her shield he would have been winded, perhaps with a few broken ribs. As it was, he was just laid flat on his back in the dust, blinking up at her with a rather surprised expression, the tip of her sword at his throat. He grinned and she remembered very suddenly that she had held a blade to his throat the first time they had met. She removed the sword and offered him her hand, almost dragging him back to his feet._

_His hands had dragged her back from the abyss, as Bianca shattered below._

_She released his hand as if it were scalding, and turned back the recruits, because anything was better than looking Varric in the eye._

Cassandra gave her little group of recruits a brief, but not unfriendly, nod of dismissal and they headed off as a group in the direction of the castle with obvious relief. She turned to stroll back to Varric, who was indeed still watching with a rather amused expression. She found herself quite determined to not appear discomfited by his antics. Whatever reaction he was trying to provoke, she would not give him the satisfaction. She would act as if it were a momentary exasperation, and nothing more.

And besides, she had...missed him, in a strange way. It was true that they had never really been friends – and why did that thought keep nagging at her like an unhappy mantra? – but they were certainly allies, and she did feel a sense of debt to him that she could at the least try to repay by civility.

“So, do you intend to start training the recruits yourself?” she asked as she approached him, leaning an arm casually on the wooden fence next to him again. “If you have a sudden urge to teach, I’m sure Cullen would happily put you to work.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure my swordsmanship would ever be anything but a guide on what _not_ to do, Seeker. Once was enough for me.”

“I meant that you could teach archery,” said Cassandra.

“I wouldn’t have the time.”

Cassandra frowned, feeling a familiar flash of annoyance. “You seem to have time enough now.”

“Maker forgive a guy for having a day off once in a while,” said Varric. “You should try it sometime.”

And that was always the way with Varric. It was impossible to have a serious conversation with him. Cassandra sighed and gave up. “Suit yourself,” she said, a little more curtly than she had intended.

“I always do,” said Varric, with a grin, and stood up straight from the fence, stretching his arms out theatrically to work out the stiffness. “Andraste’s ass, I swear you managed to hit every bone I have. I’d better be off before you suggest round two.”

Cassandra was about to reply irritably that she hadn’t been the one to suggest round one in the first place, but stopped herself in time. Maker, but it was difficult not to argue with him, even when she was making a conscious effort not to do so.

 Varric started to walk away, but then something seemed to occur to him and he turned back briefly.

“Oh speaking of time off,” he said, “we’re getting a few people together for Wicked Grace tonight, by the way. After sundown, second floor of the tavern.”

“Oh,” said Cassandra, not quite sure what response he expected.

“So don’t be late, because it only gives Sera a chance to mark the cards again.”

Cassandra stared at him. “I...you’re asking me to come?”

“That was what I was oh-so-subtly hinting at, yeah.” Varric gave her a broad smile. “You got to kick my ass at something you’re brilliant at Seeker; it’s only fair that I return the favour.”

That made a strange kind of sense, though Cassandra couldn’t work out if he was using it as an excuse for asking her, or if he was trying to give _her_ an excuse for accepting. She had never really...socialised with the others in the Inquisition in the way that Varric did. There hadn’t been time.

But wasn’t that the same flimsy excuse Varric had given her himself just a few moments ago? Damn him.

A card game. Getting a few people together. Cassandra felt foolishly nervous at the thought.

“After sundown?” she said, and then gave what she hoped was a casual but decisive nod. “I’ll come if my duties permit.”

“Great, see you there.”

Varric started off in the direction of the battlements, humming quietly to himself. Cassandra frowned at his retreating back, and before she could stop herself—

“Varric!”

He turned, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Is this what all that was about?” she said. “You _fought_ me in front of five other people simply in order to rope me into a card game?”

Varric shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“You could have simply asked.”

“You would have said no.”

And he turned and walked off, as if that answered everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My recruits appear to be developing little personalities of their own, which was slightly unexpected.
> 
> I've had terrible writer's block recently, which for me means I've been doing a lot of drawing instead. As soon as I get art block again, I'll be back to writing! Such is my life. So chapters may be a little slower in coming these days, but they'll be here, never you worry. Apologies for the relatively short one this time.
> 
> Spoiler: the next chapter has apples in it, and another cameo from our dear Quizzy.


	5. Chapter 5

Card games aside, Cassandra really did have little time to spend relaxing around Skyhold. So when Commander Cullen took the recruits back off her hands for a time, persuading her in a tone that sounded _almost_ but not quite an order, to take a day off, she found herself somewhat at a loss. She had risen early by habit, gone through her usual training exercises, and then...what? What could she do without any pressing matters of business for the Inquisition to attend to? What did the others do all day in these circumstances?

Her question was answered sooner than expected as she was walking across the courtyard and came across Sera, who was standing against the wall of the tavern with an apple balanced on her head and the look of someone who was trying not to be nervous and failing.

“Alright, go for it shorty!” she yelled.

Before Cassandra could ask what on earth she was doing, there was a _thunk_ , and the apple toppled slowly off Sera’s head with a crossbow bolt sticking out of it.

Cassandra turned to see Varric standing a dozen yards away, lowering his crossbow. He gave her a brief nod of greeting. She turned back to Sera, incredulous.

The elf girl let out a long breath, slumping away from the wall and staring at the apple on the ground. “ _Shiiiiiitt_ ,” she said, and then broke into a grin. “Grand! Bull owes me a drink. Cheers Varric.”

“Any time Buttercup,” said Varric, strolling towards her. “A still target isn’t much of a challenge, you know. But half that drink should be mine.”

“Sod off,” said Sera cheerfully, and tossed another apple into the air. Varric paused, trained his crossbow on it, waiting until it was at the height of its journey, and then shot it. By luck or skill, it ended up pinned to a nearby tree.

Cassandra frowned. “Isn’t this a waste of food?” she said.

“They’ve got the blight,” said Sera. “Not _blight_ blight, just some apple blight shit, but nothing you want to eat. Cook gave ‘em to me. Was gonna splat people with ‘em but this turned out to be more fun.”

She began to throw apples higher into the air, one after another, for Varric to shoot. He did so with swift accuracy, his crossbow swinging to follow each new target even as Sera tried to catch him off guard. He was grinning, but there was a faint line of concentration between his eyes, a look of focus that belied his casual demeanour. It reminded Cassandra oddly of the few times she had seen him writing. It was the same casual deceit – Varric would disregard his books as just amusing tales, something to keep the masses entertained and money in his pocket, but he genuinely spent a great deal of time and effort on them. He _cared_. He _worked_ at it. But it didn’t fit his image to say as much, so he acted as though everything he did was just a bit of fun, no effort involved. Any time, Buttercup.

But then that was Varric, wasn’t it?

He had accused Cassandra of not knowing him at all. But she _did_ know him in a way, had been getting to know him for some time, hardly noticing between all the bickering and battles.

He was the kind of person who pretended not to care as much as he did. He was the kind of person who did things himself, with his own two hands, not because he didn’t trust others to help but because he didn’t want anyone else to bear his burdens. He was the kind of person who would lie to the whole world, just to protect a friend. He was the kind of person who would stay faithful to a lover even after years of separation. He was the kind of person who would save the life of a woman he had every reason to despise, simply because it wouldn’t occur to him to do otherwise. _You’d have done the same for me._ And that was it, Cassandra realised in a sudden strange moment of understanding, the reason that he had been so angry with her. If their places had been reversed, she would have saved Varric’s life of course, without question. And he _knew_ that. For all the bad feeling between them, he had known that about her, that she was a good person who would have his back when it came down to it. But he would have done the same for her, and until it had actually happened, she had had no idea.

She had, without realising, completely fallen for all his ‘Varric doesn’t give a shit about anything’ rubbish.

 “HEY VARRIC, THINK FAST!” yelled Sera.

She drew back her arm and hurled an apple with pin-point accuracy at Cassandra’s head.

In the normal run of things Cassandra liked to think she would at least have had the reflexes to duck, but she had been rather lost in thought and was so caught off guard she hardly had time to flinch, eyes squeezing themselves shut before the apple hit.

Or didn’t, as the case may be. Instead there was a sharp _thunk,_ and Cassandra opened her eyes slowly to see the apple lying on the ground several feet to her right, a crossbow bolt sticking neatly out of it. She turned to Varric, who gave an exaggerated little bow. Then she turned back to fix Sera with a glare. Sera stuck her tongue out, unconcerned, and hurled another apple, this time at Varric himself, who shot it quite neatly through the middle before it reached him.

There was a brief smattering of applause, and Cassandra realised she wasn’t the only one watching any more. A few people passing by had stopped to see the show, were leaning against walls or hovering nearby. When Iron Bull strolled up a few minutes later, he started throwing two apples in the air at the same time, with Varric having to shoot the first and Sera with her longbow hitting the other. The idea seemed to be that the first to miss would be the loser, but neither of them did, and Sera soon got bored enough that she made Bull devise ever more creative challenges, blighted apples flying around the courtyard.

It was...really quite impressive, and even though she was inwardly rolling her eyes at Varric and Sera’s showing off, Cassandra found it difficult to tear herself away. Her own skills with a blade were indispensable and she was proud of them to an extent, but it would never have occurred to her to use them to _entertain_ like this. Which was why people like Varric were always more popular than people like her, of course.

“So did no-one think to invite me to this little party?” The Inquisitor’s voice floated over the courtyard as she wandered over. “Here I come out of an important world-changing war meeting to find some of my most trusted allies having a food fight.” She gave Bull a light punch on the arm. “I think you got the better half of the deal, sonny Jim. Looks like your morning was a lot more interesting than mine.”

“Just a little target practice, Grandma,” grinned Bull.

“Oh yeah?” Etta raised her eyebrows at the apple Sera was idly tossing from hand to hand. “Reminds me of a little trick I used to do,” she said. “Lob one of those over here would you?”

Sera did so, and Etta caught the apple neatly in one outstretched hand. Then she hurled it high into the air, drew her axe as it shot back down to earth and...

There was a whir of metal and the apple fell into two neat halves on the ground. The small crowd that had now gathered erupted with cheers, and Etta bowed with disarming false modesty.

“Not bad!” said Bull. “Betcha I could do it, with a little practice. Although...” He swung his greataxe round from his back and looked at it thoughtfully. “I think my axe might be too big. Maybe I should get myself one of those little toy ones like yours, Grandma.”

Etta spun her axe lazily around in a circle. “That sounded like a _challenge_ to me, boy,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

Sera chucked an apple at Bull’s chest by way of getting his attention. “Hey, I bet you can’t toss two of these in the air and then spike one on each horn when they come down!” she said. There was a vague murmured _‘ooooh’_ of interest from the crowd.

Cassandra took this as her cue to leave. It was somewhat worrying that the fate of the world depended on these people. She strolled across the courtyard towards the main hall, vaguely intending to go and sit in the garden for a while, or perhaps find Dorian and see if he had finished the latest book she had lent him. It was turning into that kind of day now; aimless and peaceful. Everyone seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement to take a break. A rarity in times like these, and one she very much appreciated now it had been forced upon her. She couldn’t even work up much disapproval for the apple hurling antics of the others.

Dorian wasn’t in the small library in the tower as she had expected, so she wandered back down with an idea of going for a walk around the battlements to look for him, and perhaps checking in on Commander Cullen to make sure he was taking his own advice. The day was cold but bright, and a crisp wind kept her at a swift pace along the battlements, sparing a brief nod to those she passed on the way.

The Commander wasn’t at his desk either – where _was_ everyone today? – but to her surprise when she left and continued on the long circuit around the castle walls, she met Varric coming up the steps. She paused instinctively as he approached, trying not to resent him for once again interrupting her relaxing day. Admittedly she _had_ been looking for someone to talk to, she realised, but Varric was hardly at the top of her list. Regardless of how amiably he had acted towards her recently, he was always such hard work to be around. Perhaps even _more_ so now actually, since she never knew which way their conversations would go. At least when they were hurling insults at each other she knew where they stood.

Cassandra was also uncomfortably aware that she had spent a lot of time thinking about him recently, and it was beginning to bother her. It bothered her that it bothered her, in fact.

“You managed to escape your adoring public, I see,” she said by way of greeting as he fell into step beside her.

“You say that like I’m the only one,” said Varric.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on Seeker,” he said, and Cassandra could hear the grin in his voice even without turning to look. “You must know you’ve got a pretty big following yourself around here.”

Cassandra made a dismissive noise as she felt a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks.

“I heard one of your recruits was saying some _very_ complimentary things about you the other day,” continued Varric. “Wakefield, wasn’t it? Word has it that there was some pretty heavy betting on whether he’d survive to see the next week.”

Cassandra felt her hands clench slightly by her sides. Of course Varric would have heard of that ridiculous incident. Of course recruit Wakefield was now a hero, and she came across as...as...

“Of course the poor guy looked terrified of you when you were training him,” said Varric. “I think he thought you were behind his being chosen just as a way of punishing him somehow.”

“I was not,” snapped Cassandra. “Commander Cullen chose him along with the others because he showed promise; that is all there is to it.”

“You might want to tell _him_ that,” chuckled Varric. “He’s still going around looking over his shoulder like he expects you to overhear every word he says. I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“ _Drop it_ Varric,” Cassandra  interrupted him sharply. “I have no wish to discuss the matter further. Do you think it pleases me to know that people are afraid of me?” I know that I do not have the...the way with people that you have, or the Inquisitor has, but there is no need to constantly throw it in my face.” The bitterness in her voice was quite unintended, but obviously clear to Varric, who looked at her in surprise.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it, Seeker,” he said.

He probably didn’t either, she realised. He was probably just trying to make light-hearted conversation, but she was still so used to him taking every opportunity to snipe at her that she saw the worst in every word he said.

“I know,” she said, because it was the closest she could bring herself to an apology. She hadn’t meant to snap at him, but he always found a way of bringing out a defensive prickliness in her.

They walked in silence for a while.

“For what it’s worth,” said Varric, suddenly. “I’m not remotely afraid of you.”

She turned and he was smiling at her again, in the kind of casual friendly way he did to everyone else, and Cassandra suddenly felt completely wrong-footed. What was he _doing?_ By all rights he should have made some barbed comment and walked off by now, leaving her feeling guilty and uncomfortable. It was the script they had followed since they had met, and in the space of a few weeks he seemed to have thrown it away for no reason that she could fathom. Instead, against all rationale, he kept reaching out to her, again and again. For so long Cassandra had been clumsily trying to get along with Varric, to make peace with him for the Inquisitor’s sake and their own, and every attempt was rebuffed by a sarcastic remark, or simply ignored. Eventually she has simply given up. Now, after Hawke, after _Bianca_ , after everything that had happened, every vicious argument they had been through...Varric was being _nice_ to her. Or he was certainly trying.

There was no other word for it. The book he had written for her, the card game, that ridiculous fight in the training ring...

“Varric...” She couldn’t find anything to say that didn’t seem ridiculous, childish. _Why are you acting as though we’re friends? What is it that you want?_

“Thank you,” she said finally.

“For what?”

“For not being afraid of me.”

He gave her an odd look. “Any time, Seeker.”

And perhaps that was as good as it would get between them. But walking side by side in peaceable silence, Cassandra found it wasn’t such a terrible prospect. Varric didn’t hate her, and he wasn’t afraid of her. There were few people in the world of whom she could say that with certainty. It had been enough to save her life before, and it would have to be enough for her now.

The moment was somewhat spoilt by Iron Bull strolling by in the other direction, whistling cheerfully, with an apple spiked on each horn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Sera, because I have a sneaking suspicion she's the Inquisition member I'm most like :P
> 
> Tune in next time for the final chapter (dun dun dunnnnn) in which I might finally be able to persuade Varric and Cassandra to have a frank conversation for once, and Varric takes up Cassandra's earlier suggestion of archery training...sort of.


End file.
